Tales from the Front Lines

Are days like Sundays. When everyone else in the world is lounging or at least looking like they are lounging, I'm doing laundry like a fiend, emptying dishwashers, trying to find a spare moment. And, when I'm done, I'm catching up on email. This working full time has serious consequences.

Honestly, if there was a mother revocation center, my name would have been turned in loooong ago. No matter how hard I try, at least one or more of my children end up feeling mistreated, lonely, aggravated or abused. Usually, my uber sensitive daughter is the one that get's the short shrift (so she will attest), but this morning: 1. The Caminator was wailing that I didn't love her because I hadn't filled in her reading log and was trying to throw away her hard worked on homework (picture of an apple). These are punishable offenses in Cami land. I barely get them shuffled off to school when... 2. Ian calls. No lunch. No lunch money. What to do. While he is on the phone with me, I instruct him through making a PB and J, and guide him through riffling through my secret stash of cash so he will have milk money. I urge him to hurry, hurry, hurry, because he's discovered this AS he is ready to walk out the door. *sigh* What kind of mother am I?

And here I sit, by myself, in my office, typing away. I want you all to know that I miss you and hope to catch up. So very much has happened, but I'll just hit the highlights. Currently: Working at a small community college, in the communications department in the south. What could be more fun? Children: Still three, still the same ones Husband: yes, I have one. Same one. Outlook? Well, I'm admittedly a "glass half empty" kind of girl. Don't know why, but I am. Let's keep in touch. You check back here soon.

Thought you'd enjoy at least one story about CAMINATOR! off we trot to Kmart all three of us. School supplies and two gallons of milk, later, we are marching toward Georgia, or at least the cashier with the spoils of war..... When wait? What is that wafting on the breeze? Donuts? And where is Cami? Like a leming to the sea, that Cami, steadfastly heading to the bakery with no thought of my barking at her. Wait, is she stopping? No, she's slowing down to gaze at the Barbie aisle. It's pink, it's mezmerizing, she's helpless. When I finally found her, she's got an armful of those dreadful BRATZ dolls and is looking at me angelically. No. No and no. Absolutely not. You wandered off, wouldn't come back, and those are dreadful dolls and no. You ain't gettin' them. When, Linda Blair move the hell over, it's Cami-time. Faster than you can blink she turns mutinous. Drops to the floor, rolls around. I laugh. She kicks me in the shin. I stop laughing. S...

an excellent question. Truly. I have no excuse, except for two girls, one boy and one male dog all conspiring to make this the SUMMER OF THE LIVING HELL I know you want details. I know. I'm working on it. Please stay tuned.

Were you aware that dogs can go through windows? Were you ? HUH? Because, they can. On second floor windows, they wind up on the roof. On the overhang off my bedroom. Between the windows. Completely hidden from the casual observer, because, hey, who expects your dog to be on your roof? And they will lay there for 20 minutes dozing comfortable on the warm springtime roof, oblivious to your increasingly frantic calls of "treat!", "Ice!!" and "CCCCHHHEEEEZZZZ". Then, they will blithely take 15 years off your life by leaping BACK into the bedroom as you are checking under the bed, landing beside you, all warm fur and hot breath. I have a contusion on my forehead from slamming my head into the bed frame in the most fright I've ever felt in my life. Want a dog?

Sugarpie's post got me thinking. Last week, I was doing my morning routine which, of course, does include showering. I had put Black Jack out back on his run so that he could have his "outdoor time", while I had my soapy, in the hot water, relax time. (bad idea) Anyway...littlest daughter comes to the door and informs me: "Black Jack is in the front yard, Mama. How come?" How come, indeed. I think I can spare the 10 seconds to get dressed and go grab him, when...dear God, here they come, the Mafia walkers. They walk every blessed morning of the week sometime between 8:00 and 8:20, they pass my house. And, there's Black Jack in the front yard, head outstretched, ears perkily pointed, flag of a tail waving a happy hello. Of course, they see a menacing beast, ready to pounce. I don't blame them, he's 80 pounds and solid muscle. I leap down 15 stairs. Grab both leash, and my red rain coat and throw it over my bath towel fetchingly wrapped around me sa...

Believe me I know. You canNOT just come willy nilly back to your blog and not talk about what the heck happened in your classes at the end of the semester. It's unAmerican, unChristian and unchatty. I, myself, am a American Christian chatty girl, hence I shall spill the details of the....LAST WEEKS OF THE SEMESTER OF DOOM. Lets see: In my public speaking class, I had one of my very favorite students blow off his last speech. Now, I understand spring madness. I've had it myself, yet I canNOT let them get away with this. It's wretchedly unfair to the rest. I gave him a choice: speak or take a zero. Up to you, pal. I'm just the one with the gradebook and red pen. You earn it or lose it. (Oh, I'm a tough cookie in the classroom, you betcha) He grudgingly spoke in a flippant manner for about 90 seconds. I thanked him and then, at the end of class, I delivered his final grade. Once that formality was complete, I asked him, "Whatever possessed you to try and blow off ...

First of all, there is a pregnant female in the O'Bryant household. It is a mollie...that seems to give birth to live tiny fish as easily as breathing. We purchased two mollies and brought them home only to find 4 fish in the bag. Two big and two tiny. Now, we have 4 big fish in the tank and about 18 tiny "fry". The aquarium people have assured me that the big fish will eat the little fish which initally horrified me. Now, however, I can only see the beauty of such a plan. Eat your young, go ahead, please! Do it for me. Chow one for the team. Of course, I have inherited mollies with an absurd sense of the maternal. They don't WANT to eat their young. They just want to procreate their tiny mollie heads off. Did you know that female mollies can store sperm for up to 6 months? If they are stressed or aggravated with their tank mates, they will not gestate, they'll just "hold it in" somehow and impregnate themselves, later. THere's a lesson t...

...and end right up doing them anyway. For me, it's Weight Watchers. Because, really, right down to it, what the heck else am I going to do? Heave this weight around with me for the rest of my natural existance? Ummmm......no. No thank you. So, off I trot to the website and sign my happy self up for 3 months. A few clicks of the mouse later and ....voila! the heavens open up, and the FLEX point system is revealed! I have a certain number of points and many of my meals are happily within the range of the points. Then, I realize that the points have to last me the ENTIRE day. This is what we call "the whole picture", the "small print" of the exercise. I do not get to have 20-umpty points for breakfast, lunch AND dinner. Nope. Has to last the whole day. So, I begin weeding out the undesireables, right into the grateful and astonished mouths of my children. "Here, sweetie, eat the icecream. Yes, I know it's Mommy's favorite flavor, so p...

He's such a sweet man. Really. It's a shame I dislike him. He's done nothing to deserve it, really. All he's done is tell me the truth. And the truth is: I'm fat. He's tall and thin, with brown hair and I think he has eyes. I'm not sure, because I cannot look this man in the eyes. Never have. Probably never will. There are reasons for this: there's so much ELSE to look at in his office, scales, blood pressure equipment and the endlessly facinating poster of "Lifeline - your blood's biological journey". I've stared at it so many times that I can practically tell you...nothing. Because I'm sitting in his office, with hands and knees tightly clenched as he delivers the news about my weight gain in a somber, gently chiding tone. "You were HERE in Feb. 2005, and now, you are HERE", he points to an appalling number. "Uh-huh." this is from me. "And we need to get you down here", he points again, the...

A "poser", a "wannabe", a "wuss", am I. I have just had any type of motherly pride slapped right out of me. I have seen Southern motherhood in action and I am AWED. It was a birthday party celebrating the 5th birthday of a little friend of my youngest daughter. It was issued, parchment style with ye olde English writing, asking for all "brave knights and faire maidens....to come to the castle for revelry, jousting and foolishment". Huh, said I. Clever, yet I am not cowed, not yet. Then, I RSVP and ask should my littlest be dressed in some medieval manner. A flowing veil, perhaps, at least a dress? No, sugar don't worry your little head, everything should be ready to go I was informed....oohkaaaay. Finally the day has come. Small child is fetchingly dressed, hair curled AND ponytailed and an appropriate gift in hand, I smugly enter....a castle? A restaurant? A restaurant with a castle theme? That is completely and utterly empty and decorated ...

Gracious, I do get myself riled, do I not? Last entry was such a departure for me that I find myself incorporating my Lamaze breathing, which I used religiously whilst in childbirth (to ask/demand/beg/cajole for my epidural). Lamaze, it's a beautiful thing. Now, then, let's move on. What's on my mind this very morning. One thing: my IPod. How I loooooove my IPod. How I adore technology. At last, at long, long last, my inner D.J. is unleashed and boy, howdy, am I rocking the tunes. I've got alllll my favorite songs finally in one place. I got Christian music, of course. I'm a diehard Amy Grant fan. Always have been, always will be. I've come to terms with it. From her early bubblegum earnestness, to the more gritty tunes she's put out recently, I do so adore her. She and I have lived similiar lives and I daydream about what it would be like to live close enough to her and be enough of a personal friend to pick up the phone and say, "Ames? Jewel...

I've never written a "Dear John" letter before. Mainly, because I never dated a John. I dated a Jon, I think. A "Jeff" was in there, too, I believe and a "Mike". But, never a John. And this isn't written to a person, but to a group of individuals, who shall, to my best ability remain anonymous. They deserve anonymity, not for their protection, but because I would rather cut off my fingers than direct anyone else to this organization, of which I was once so proud. So be it. Dear "board", You are a thief. You stole my time, my talent and my heart. You wasted my time, prostituted my talent and broke my heart. You inspired me to corrupt my values, and gave me a chance to settle for incredibly less than I was worth. Your standard in what consitutes "funny" and "clever" and "witty" is among the cheapest in the industry. And, I certainly bought into it for a time. No more. No longer. It's not funny, an...

Besides dating me unbearably as a culture absorber of the 80's and 90's, this statement "I am verklempt" also speaks to my authenticity. Not only am I not Jewish, sadly (and oddly, because I ultimately answer to how I live my life to a Jewish carpenter), but also the word Verklempt is evidently not a Jewish word. Who knew? Jewish people, evidently. When I google it, no honest, good, God-fearing Jewish dictionaries come to my aid. Instead, my googler brings up websites that hiss and spit and nearly shout, "Poser" and "has been" for my wanting to even know the definition. However, I shall give this much-maligned word a definition. Verklempt is to "be overcome". As in: I would have written in my blog, y'all, but what with everything going on...I was verklempt. And what, precisely prompted my verklemptedness? Delighted to share: 1. A hideous, though, thank God, treatable disease has impacted my beloved Black Jack. He looks not un...

....for motherly bragging. For those who don't care for bragging, (I'm assuming we all do love mothers, at least a little), please feel free as a bird to skip this entry. I won't be hurt, really, I won't. It's o.k., I have extraordinary children. I really do. I took them to the "school of choice". There, they were assessed to see where they would fit in. Ian, my precious son, said, "It was hard, but fun. It's challenging, but fun." Ahhhh, that's grand! Cami, the precious youngest daughter came out all smiles and blue eyes crinkly with excitement, "Fun!", she decreed. Excellent, I thought. We waited for Katie. And waited for Katie. And just when I was entertaining thoughts that I had accidently brought my daughter to the open door of a disguised space ship and they had vanished my Katie to Mars, here she comes. The two evaluators behind her had glistening brows. They were shaking their heads. She was beaming. This cou...

did you know that? I teach that and it makes sense, apparently. Someone who is focused is wonderful. Overly focused? Obsessed. Someone who is decisive? Thank God. Overly decisive? Dictator, baby. Alas, and alack, these are only two of the many traits that were up in full force this week as I precariously balanced career, home, family and now, redistricting. Did I wait? Did I ponder options? Did I peruse possibilities? Did I have ANY patience whatsoever? I think not. No indeed, I leaped (lept?) full speed ahead into project "save my children's education" Heard the news on Wenesday morning. By Thursday, I had: scheduled a realtor to visit our home to appraise it for market value, toured two (not one, but two) schools of "choice" that would be a possiblity for the kidlets, decided for, and then against running for school board myowndamnself to try to rectify the situation and developed a raging migrane. By God, when the going gets tough, I get a ...

Ever since I was a wee tot, I enjoyed coloring. The smell of new crayons in the traditional crayola box is just intoxicating. The sight of a 64 count box with build in sharpener? Hon-ney! Pass them right over. I glance over pens, markers, paper, but a box of crayons stops me in my tracks. And, I'll have you all know, you are supposed to color INSIDE the lines. Yes, you are. Yes. You non-conformists and free thinkers, line up over on the left. I'll deal with you all later. I would carefully, painstakingly color inside the lines, shading so carefully. I used to have an occassional friend over who would color in a completely HEATHEN manner (no offense to my friends, the heathens). She would not only apply improper pressure, nubbing up the tip, but she would actually tear the paper away from my crayon!!!! and color with the whole STICK, in broad, sweeping gestures. I knew that she would come to no good with her hedonistic tendencies. I think she became some sort of impressionistic ...

No not the group, Mercy Me, who did the incredible "I Can Only Imagine" (fabulous song, btw, do listen if you get the chance), but more of "Mercy! Mercy me!" in a wistful Southern exclamatory manner. I've just graded my students' first tests. Now, I've matured quite a bit as a professor. As a fledgling prof, I took a fiendish delight in grading, wielding my red pencil like a scalpel, slashing through ignorant answers and incomplete essays with all the finnesse and fervor of a Crusader. "wrong, wrong, Wrong!", I'd mutter and shake my head. Now, I've swung the other way. And I ask myself the tough questions as a teacher. Why are they wrong? Did they not study? Did they not listen? or, and most haunting of all, Did I not teach? Communication, I instruct my students, is a two way street. Each party is responsible for their portion of giving or receiving a message. My students did not do well. Not horrible, not a bloodbath, but I know...

I've been repeatedly pestered by folks to start a blog. A what? A Blog?! What the heck? (this portrays my helplessly antiquated notions of technology, I thought blog was initially a made up word. Like fax. Yes, I'm hanging my head in shame) So, here I am, having navigated the inital waters of cyberspace. My life is remarkable, and unremarkable all at the same time. What with children, a husband, a demon beast of a dog, and a burgeoning academic professorship, I've got ALOT on my plate. And plenty of "front lines" to speak from. My basic philosophy, borrowed from someone much cleverer than I, is "If you can't be a inspiring example, be a terrible warning". I've been both, I'm afraid. And, so, perhaps have you.